


Daddy, Can You Die From a Broken Heart?

by firstdegreefangirl



Category: 9-1-1: Lone Star (TV 2020)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Owen Strand is a Good Dad, Sobriety, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, poor baby TK, post-proposal that wasn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstdegreefangirl/pseuds/firstdegreefangirl
Summary: How does he sleep at night?Mama, the nerve of this guyTo leave me so easyAm I gonna be alright?(he will be; Owen is there to make sure of it)
Relationships: Alex (9-1-1 Lone Star)/TK Strand, Owen Strand & TK Strand
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69





	Daddy, Can You Die From a Broken Heart?

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Bobbob for enabling this. I listen to too much country radio and she never tells me "no," ever. 
> 
> That said, what a ride to write, and I hope y'all have as much fun reading it as I did putting it together.

Owen drops his phone on the bed as he shucks out of his uniform pants, working down the buttons on his shirt and pawing through his dresser drawers until he’s changed into a pair of sweats and a white T-shirt. 

The phone slides into his pocket while he’s walking through the doorway, and by the time he settles into the corner of the couch, he’s largely forgotten about it. There’s a glass of cold iced tea puddling condensation on its coaster, and a new episode of Top Chef he’s been looking forward to all day. 

The TV flickers to life when he jabs at the remote, and he’s just finished the recap from last week’s elimination rounds when his leg starts to buzz loudly. Just a second later, his ringtone starts to play as he’s fumbling for the opening of the pocket. 

He pulls the phone free and looks at the screen, glowing with the picture he and TK had taken together the day his son had graduated the FDNY academy. 

Owen glances at the time printed at the top of the screen and sighs. He knows TK had asked Alex to dinner tonight, had shown him the bright titanium ring in its little velvet box, the words _you’ll forever be my always_ engraved on the inside. Against his better judgement, Owen had remembered that TK is 26, capable of making his own decisions, regardless of what his dad might think, and offered his support and blessing. 

TK is probably calling now to announce their engagement, and Owen is going to be doomed to a lifetime of Thanksgivings and Christmases sitting across the table from the young man he’s never liked for his only son. 

But he can’t let on, so he forces a smile and slides his thumb across the screen. 

“Hey, son. How’d it-” TK cut him off with a ragged sob. “TK?” 

Owen sits up, drops his bare feet to the floor and rests his elbows on his knees. His heart starts racing while TK stammers and chokes on his own words. He hears him take a deep breath, the air shuddering out of his lungs, and try speaking again. Even so, Owen can only make out a handful of the words, around TK’s heavy sobs. 

“R-ride … pick me … please … _Dad.”_

He’s on his feet before he registers what’s happening, the way TK’s voice broke at the end of the sentence triggering Owen’s fight-or-flight responses. 

And he’ll fight for his son, whenever he needs to. 

“Where are y-” But before he can finish the question, there’s a quiet beep on the other end of the line as the call ends. Owen is cramming his feet into the flip-flops he usually wears only to walk downstairs and get the mail. But they’re sitting right by the door, and there aren’t any zippers or laces to bother with, no seconds lost to his footwear as he tries to remember if TK had mentioned where he’d booked the reservation for tonight. 

He starts down the stairs, rushing like he usually does only when there’s a fire alarm ringing out behind him. His phone vibrates as he shoves the door of the building open, and a quick glance at the screen tells him that TK at least had the wherewithal to send Owen his GPS location. 

He’s paralyzed for a moment, standing at the bottom of the stoop and looking around as the city rushes past him. 

_TK needs him … TK needs him to … to get in his car and drive to the location on the text. He can do that. He has to do that. TK needs him._

Owen takes off at a sprint, weaving in and out of pedestrians until he’s made it around the corner to the monthly parking lot. He throws himself into the driver’s seat, starting the ignition and fastening his seatbelt in one fluid motion. 

As he turns out of the lot, listening to his phone read off the direction he needs to go, making nice with Alex at the holidays doesn’t seem so bad, compared to whatever he’s about to roll up on. 

* * *

New York traffic has never bothered Owen. He knows how early to leave for work in the mornings, and the extra minutes are just more time he can spend listening to the radio or chatting with TK. 

But when he comes to a complete stop, halfway across the bridge TK is waiting on the other side of, he curses at the quiet air inside the car. He’d smacked the radio off almost as soon as he’d started driving, the overly peppy love song feeling a little too on the nose for the conclusions he’s drawn. The cars start crawling forward again, and as soon as he’s back over dry land, he’s nosing his way into the left lane and pushing the accelerator as fast as he reasonably can. 

Which isn’t that fast, all things considered, but it’s faster than he had been going, and by New York City standards, he’s making good time. 

By the time he pulls up outside the restaurant, he’s had almost 40 minutes to wonder what happened, what he’d find when he arrived. 

If TK would even still be there, but Owen was pretty confident that he would, since he’d called and asked for the ride. 

His SUV maneuvers easier than a firetruck, thankfully, and TK is easy to spot when he jerks around the corner into the parking lot. 

After all, there’s not an excess of crying men standing in front of the little park bench by the door. He’s got a suitcoat draped over one arm, both of them folded high on his chest, like he’s trying to block out the world. He hasn’t seen Owen yet, but he watches TK lift his arm and bury his face in the jacket. 

He screeches to a stop almost directly in front of his son, and leaves the car idling and the door open as he steps out and crosses to the sidewalk. 

“TK?” He’s careful to be quiet, but there’s no hiding the alarm in his voice. 

“Dad? You came?” TK sniffles and swallows hard as he looks up. 

“Of course I did. You called.” Owen reaches out and rests one hand on TK’s shoulder, then turns to look back at the car. “But people tend to be a little less understanding about my use of fire lanes when I’m not driving a firetruck, so what say we get out of here?” 

When TK nods, Owen leads him over to the car and opens the passenger door. TK doesn’t need any prompting to crawl into the seat, and by the time Owen has made it back around and fastened his seatbelt, he’s buckled his seatbelt and tucked his knees up to his chest. The heels of his shoes are digging into the upholstery, but Owen can’t bring himself to chastise TK, even teasingly. 

Instead, he pulls away, sets his course back for Manhattan. 

“What happened?” He waits until they’re back on the streets to ask the question that’s been weighing on his mind since the phone rang over an hour ago. 

“I’m not engaged.” Owen thinks that TK is trying to sound angry, but there are still tears running down his face and he’s teetering on the edge of another sob. 

“So I gathered.” He keeps his voice neutral; as much as he hadn’t wanted TK and Alex to get married, he’d never have wished this for his son in a million years. “Want to talk about it?” 

Talking helps, he knows, when there’s something on TK’s mind. He’s spent countless nights over the years on the phone in the middle of the night, listening to TK pour his heart out. First, it was nights at his mom’s house, miles away from his friends and the city he called home. Then it was frantic attempts to keep TK on the phone and talking, not out looking for his next fix. 

It’s not even 10, but Owen's already given up on sleep tonight, so if TK needs to talk through whatever happened at dinner, that’s what they’ll do. 

But TK shakes his head, and this time, when he speaks, it’s the smallest voice Owen can ever remember hearing from his son. 

“I just want to go home and sleep forever.” 

His heart sinks at the implication, even though he can’t be totally sure if TK knows how that sounded. 

Up until now, he’d been trying to decide if he felt comfortable leaving TK on his own tonight, but that comment made the decision for him. There’s _no way_ he’s going home, no way he’s leaving TK to his own devices when he’s in this kind of headspace. 

He’ll just have to figure out a way to stay close by without making TK feel like he’s being supervised. 

Neither of them say anything else for the drive back to TK’s apartment; the car is silent save for the occasional hiccupping sob. Owen wants so badly to be able to ease his son’s pain, but he knows that there’s nothing he can do right now, other than see that TK makes it through the night until the initial sting of rejection wears off. 

Hopefully, in the morning, TK will be willing to talk and he can figure out what, exactly, happened tonight. 

When he puts the car in park, TK fumbles with the release on his seatbelt and stretches his legs out before opening the door. 

“You OK to get upstairs?” Owen watches him dig his keys out of the pocket of his pants, notices the red stain down the front of his V-neck for the first time. He can’t tell if TK was trying to hide the discoloration or trying to hide himself, but he can see that it’s not blood, so he doesn’t press the issue tonight. _Pick your battles,_ the parenting books had all told him two and a half decades ago, and tonight it feels like there’s something more important to worry about than a ruined shirt. “Good for tonight?” 

“Yeah, I’m just going to go to bed, I think.” TK hesitates, his hand on the door latch, before turning around and pulling Owen in for an awkward hug across the center console. Owen wraps his arm around TK’s shoulders and squeezes, trying to put as much comfort as he can into the gesture before TK leans back. “Love you, Dad.” 

“Love you too, TK.” He gets out of the car then, and there’s only one thought in Owen’s head while he watches TK trudge up the few steps and open the door of his building. 

_It shouldn’t ever feel this foreboding to hear his kid say “I love you.”_

But it does, so as soon as the front door closes, he’s pulling away from the door, circling the block twice and swiping his parking pass at the closest meter he can find. He reclines his seat, closes his eyes and tries the deep breathing exercises he’d learned after 9/11, when FDNY sent everyone to therapy for a few months. 

Usually, the breathing helps. But not tonight. Tonight, he can’t stand to be even this far away from TK, two doors and six flights of stairs standing between them if something goes wrong. 

So he gets out of the car and makes his way to the door of the building. There’s a keypad next to the handle, an emergency passcode that Owen’s known longer than TK has lived here. 

He’s trying not to be too overbearing, though, and maybe being this much closer will put him at ease. So he throws one leg up onto the short wall and leans against the front of the building. 

That lasts all of three minutes, which he knows because he’s still counting his breaths, before he’s punching the passcode in and hauling the door open. He climbs the stairs, one flight at a time, waiting on each landing to see how he feels. Nothing untangles the knot in his stomach though, or eases the lump in his throat, until he’s staring at the door marked 105. 

He wants to knock, wants to break down the door and make sure TK is safe and alive and OK, and then shield him from everything until the pain goes away. 

But TK thinks Owen went back to his own apartment, and he can’t betray his son’s trust like that. At least, not until he knows for sure that something is wrong. Besides, the door and walls are thin, so he can hear motion inside, make out the noise of the sink running and quick footsteps across the floor. 

If TK is walking steadily and drinking water, things are better than they could be. That could change at any moment though, Owen knows, so he settles down with his back to the door and turns his head to press an ear against it. 

Sitting just like that, he listens to all of the sounds as TK gets ready for bed, strains to hear every noise, however small. There’s one noise louder than the rest, but Owen recognizes it for what it is and settles back against the wood again. 

He’s hoping to fall asleep, well aware that he’ll wake up at even the slightest of sounds. He’s close enough to TK that he’s content, ready to wait for morning and talk to his son again then. 

But the minutes turn to hours, and Owen barely manages to drift off for a moment. He heard the TV turn on, then the muted sounds of the program through the door, then the same noises fading out as the streaming service shuts itself off. But there’s no more movement, and Owen knows that he’d feel it in his gut if something were seriously wrong. 

So he stays, leaning against TK’s front door, standing guard against any demons that might try to invade tonight. 

He’s just started to doze again when his phone vibrates in his pocket, just like it had earlier. It's even more anxiety-inducing now, though, because regardless of who's calling, good calls never come at this time of night. 

His fingers fumble into his pocket again, wrap around the phone and pull it out in time for him to see that it’s just after 3 a.m., and TK is calling. 

Again. 

And he’s still leaning against TK’s very thin front door. If he answers now, there’s no way TK won’t hear him sitting out front when he should be at home. 

As soon as his body registers the signals from his brain, Owen is scrambling to his feet, all but hurtling down the stairs. He stumbles and has to throw his weight against the wall to keep from tumbling end over end until he reaches the third floor landing. There’s a dull pain in his shoulder, but he ignores it in favor of checking to see that he’s out of earshot of TK's front door before he swipes across the screen and answers the call. 

“TK?” Owen opens his mouth all the way when he speaks, trying to make himself sound groggy and half-awake, instead of panicked and breathless. 

“Dad?” He’s not crying anymore, but defeat still laces his tone. 

“Hey, everything OK?” 

_“Dad.”_ His voice breaks on the single syllable. _There’s the crying again._ Owen’s heart breaks as he listens to his son take a couple of deep breaths and try to pull himself together. “Ca-can you … I need my deposit back, I don’t know … I-I … the door’s bent. Uh, I … I slammed it.” 

Owen knows. It’s the sound he’d heard earlier, familiar after the way things ended with his ex-wife. Ex-wives, if he’s honest with himself, but the second one had ended pretty amicably. 

Regardless, TK is breathing heavily on the other end of the line, and Owen can’t get lost in his own past now. Not when his son needs him in the present. 

“OK, hey that’s OK. It’s a door. We can fix it. Are _you_ OK?” Owen leans carefully against the wall, steadying himself while he waits for TK’s response. 

“I … don’t know.” There’s some shuffling against the speaker, then TK’s voice returns. “Shit, it’s really early, sorry, I didn’t mean to-” 

“TK,” Owen cuts him off. “It’s alright. And you don’t have to be OK, either.” He knows TK needs the reminder sometimes, needs to be reassured that there’s no answer Owen is looking for except the truth. Wherever else he might feel like he needs to pretend, he can be honest with his dad. 

“I don’t think I am.” The words come out on the end of a sigh, then TK chokes on a half-sob. “Can-can you-” He can’t finish the question, but Owen knows what he was going to say. 

“Already on my way. Hang tight, kiddo.” 

He turns to climb back up the steps, but only makes it up two stairs before he realizes that he can’t go knock on the door. Not yet. 

As far as TK knows, he’s still at his apartment, 15 minutes away if traffic is good. If he goes upstairs now, TK will know that he’s been here all night, and who knows how he’ll react to that right now? 

So he turns around, walks back down the stairs until he’s pushing the door open. 

“I’m outside the building,” he narrates to the sound of TK’s breathing. There’s a pang in his chest when he feels bad for lying, but he also knows that he’s not really lying. He is outside of a building, just not the one TK thinks it is. 

He turns the corner, unlocks his car and starts the engine, connecting the call to the Bluetooth radio. 

It’s an elaborate charade, he knows. Maybe over the top, but he can’t be sure if TK would register that he never heard the car running, if he’d know that Owen turned up at his door alarmingly fast. So he sits in the car for 15 minutes, watches the clock and occasionally says something to TK about a dog on the sidewalk, or how they should have another pizza night, order from that place on Central he knows is TK’s favorite. 

TK doesn’t say anything, but every so often Owen can hear him gulp, or sigh, or let out a shuddery breath. It's always at the end of a sentence, so he knows TK is listening, responding as best as he can right now. 

When he figures it’s been long enough that could have reasonably driven from his apartment to TK’s, he gets out of the car and closes the door loudly enough to be heard on the other end of the phone. 

“Coming up the stairs. Is your door open?” 

“Y-yeah.” His voice is shaky, but clear through the speaker, so Owen can tell that he’s pressing the phone against his ear. He can picture TK as he takes the stairs two at a time, holding the phone with both hands like Owen knows he does when he’s worried about something. 

“Good. I’ll be right there.” 

He doesn’t hang up until he’s turning the knob, pushing TK’s door open. TK is sitting on the couch, and sure enough, both hands are holding his phone up to his face. He’s still wearing the stained T-shirt from last night, and either still crying or crying again. Owen can't be sure which it is, but he decides it doesn’t matter when TK looks over at him, devastation written across his face. 

Owen’s heart breaks just a little bit more at the sight, at the knowledge that someone took advantage of TK, knew how much and how deeply he loves, and betrayed that trust. 

But he knows better than to ask the deep questions when he’s barely two steps in the door. Instead, he pockets his phone and forces a small smile onto his face. 

“Hey, you want to show me that door? How about I get us a couple waters, we’ll order Zabar’s in a few hours, take a look at it together?” 

Under any other circumstances, 3:45 a.m. would be way too early for home repair. A bent door hinge is the sort of project that could wait a day, or a week, or until Owen was moving out and needed to get the place cleaned up. 

Today, though, he knows it’s about more than just the door. It’s something that TK can focus on, a little bit of control that he can get back. It doesn’t take long to survey the damage, or for Owen to be silently impressed at his son’s strength, but getting the door down from the hinges is a little bit more effort. Owen’s glad for it though, because it gives TK more of a distraction than just tightening a couple of screws. Together, they lay the door across the kitchen island, and Owen shows TK where the force of his slam split the wood a little bit. It’s not enough to render the door useless, but enough that the hinge won’t go back in place. 

But there’s no lock on the door anyway, so Owen points out where the hinges aren’t spaced evenly along the length of it, how to flip it upside down and measure for where it would need rehung. TK hands Owen the drill bit they’ll need, and he turns to look at him, pausing in his narration of how to put a door back on its hinges. 

“Good thing we got you that tool kit, huh? Saved us the trip to Home Depot to rent a drill.” 

“Yeah.” He’s not quite amused, but there’s almost a laugh at the end of his response. And there’s no hint of tears in his voice, no choked sob around the words. 

So they’re on the right track. Owen drills the first set of holes, passes the tool over to TK to do the other side while he holds the door steady. Once that’s taken care of, it’s easy enough to hold the door while TK screws the hinges back into place, then spin the latch around so it faces the right direction. 

When the door is finished, and they’ve tested it several times, Owen sets the screwdriver back into the tool kit and looks at TK. He’s hoping to see relief, or pride, or _something_ at the work they’ve completed, but instead TK is staring off into space. His eyes are wide, and Owen can see the way he’s worrying his bottom lip, even though he’s clearly trying to hide it. 

The distraction had helped, for a while, but now that the work is done, TK’s brain seems to be right back to heartbreak central. 

Owen doesn't say anything right away, but when TK starts gnawing at the side of one of his thumbnails – a habit Owen had thought he’d kicked back in high school – he steps up to stand almost right in front of him. 

“Alright, give me your shirt.” 

The worry on TK’s face is replaced with alarm at the sudden, and seemingly odd, request. 

“Huh?” He sounds dazed, and a little distant, so Owen can’t tell if he actually heard him or not. 

“Your shirt. Give it here,” Owen holds his hand out and wiggles his fingers. “Put a clean one on if you want, but it’s your place. We just can’t get the stain out while you’re wearing it.” 

TK looks down at himself, like he’s noticing the big red splotch on his chest for the first time. He pinches at the fabric, pulls it away from his skin before reaching over his head to tug the shirt off and pass it to Owen in a crumpled wad. 

“I, uh … we … I didn’t … uh … Alex … it’s wine.” 

“OK, that’s alright.” The knot in Owen’s stomach twists again, but he takes a deep breath and reminds himself that TK had been sober when he’d picked him up, and the shirt was already stained by then. He hates to think what might have happened to lead him to that point, but he’s confident that it wasn’t TK imbibing. “Wine’s an easy stain. You have any peroxide? First aid kit anywhere?” 

Owen reaches back to the drainboard over the kitchen sink and picks up the bottle of dish soap, then tries a couple of cabinets until he finds the one with TK’s bowls. When he steps back, TK reaches under the sink for the red zipper bag of first aid materials. He pulls it open, and passes Owen the bottle of peroxide. 

“So what you’ll do here,” he starts narrating again as he pours the liquid into the bowl. “Is mix three parts of the peroxide and a part of dish soap. Swirl it all together, lay the shirt out nice and flat, and just pour it onto the fabric. Go ahead, son, rub it in a little bit, then we’ll let it sit for a while, see about those bagels?” 

TK scrubs at the material with more force than is strictly necessary, but Owen figures that he’s earned the right to really go for it, especially if Alex caused the stain in the first place. 

He smooths the shirt out across the kitchen counter, then settles himself in on the couch and pulls up the Postmates app on his phone. It’s an order he’s placed often enough for it to be nearly mindless, and half of his attention stays focused on TK, who’s roving about the apartment. 

Every so often, he’ll go over to the counter and stare at his shirt for a second, then take another lap around the little kitchen. He’ll rub at the spot on his bare chest where the stain would have been, like it’s soaked through the shirt and scarred his skin as well. But he doesn’t say anything, and neither does Owen. He just keeps watching his phone screen, eyeing the timer on the food delivery, until TK stops right in front of him. 

“TK?” Owen locks his phone and looks up. 

“I have a headache.” It’s not quite a whine, but he sounds so _resigned_ to the discomfort that Owen feels tears come to his own eyes and blinks them away quickly, before TK can notice. 

“You drink that bottle of water?” As much as he knows TK has cried over the last 12 hours, there can’t be much liquid left in his body. 

“It’s warm.” TK points to where it’s sitting, on the counter next to the sink. There’s absolutely nothing funny about the scene, but Owen forces back a chuckle at how petulant his son sounds. 26 years old, and complaining that his water isn’t cold enough, looking for all the world like he used to when he’d appear in his dad’s doorway, worrying about monsters outside the window. 

If only the monsters had stayed that far away this time, Owen thinks, on their side of the glass instead of working their way into TK’s heart before rearing their ugly heads. 

But he can’t say that, won’t let TK see how upset he is, lest he try to cover up his own heartbreak for his father’s sake. Because leave it to TK, the kid with the biggest heart he’s ever seen, to pretend that everything is OK so his dad doesn’t worry about his failed proposal. 

“Swap it out,” Owen says instead, offering a simple and rational solution. “You’ll feel better if you rehydrate.” 

“I really don’t think I will.” The sentence comes out almost bitter, and as much as Owen knows that he’s probably right, that cold water won’t fix the root of the problem, he also knows that they can work on the symptoms, take care of things as they come up. 

And that starts with not letting TK shrivel up from crying too much. 

“Humor me?” TK blinks at him for a minute before he sighs and goes to get a fresh water bottle from the fridge. Owen doesn’t say anything when he leaves the other one on the counter, but makes a mental note to put it away later. 

TK twists the top loose and takes a couple of swallows before he drops down beside Owen on the couch. The water sloshes and Owen prepares himself to deal with whatever the fallout might be if anything else spills today, but by a small miracle it all stays in the bottle. 

He drinks a little bit more, but coughs lightly when a sip gets caught in his throat. Owen looks over to make sure that he’s alright, and finds more tears sticking to his son’s eyelashes. 

“TK?” The flimsy bottle crinkles when TK clenches his fingers together, sides caving in and the water level rising to the very top. Owen reaches for the bottle, gently slides it out of TK’s hand and takes a swig off of the top before screwing the cap back on. When he looks over again, TK has picked up one of the throw pillows and wrapped his fingers around the edges of it. Owen is getting ready to open his mouth, trying to decide what he should say next, when the pillow goes flying across the room. 

“How could he just – the NERVE.” TK digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I mean he just … with his _trainer._ He left me, like it was _nothing,_ just went and fell in love with someone else!” Owen had suspected as much, or something similar, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear the words coming out of TK’s mouth. “God, how’d I ever think we’d actually get married?” 

He sounds so desperate, so _broken,_ that Owen is choking back tears of his own as he slides across the couch cushion to sit closer to his son. TK is leaned forward now, shoulders hunched over and elbows digging into his knees, so Owen is able to wrap an arm around his shoulders. 

“Because you’ve got a big heart, TK. And you trust people. And sometimes, it means that you get hurt. But it also means that you love _so hard,_ and I hope you never outgrow that.” He’s whispering the comforts, squeezing TK’s arm gently. Even so, or perhaps because of the tender gesture, TK bursts into tears again, leaning against his dad’s shoulder as his body shakes with sobs. 

There isn’t anything else to say, nothing Owen can do to ease the pain but hold him close, pull TK into his side with both arms and shield him from everything until the world is something he can handle again. 

Eventually, the tears dry themselves out, and TK sniffles as he sits up, leaning out of Owen’s embrace. He reaches for the bottle of water on the floor between them and empties what’s left of it in three big gulps. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth and sags into the corner of the couch, and only then does Owen try to say anything. 

“Feeling better?” There’s no tease in it, only genuine concern. When TK nods, but pulls one leg up to his chest and shrugs with one shoulder, Owen drapes his arm across the back of the sofa and tries again. “Anything else we need to fix?” 

“No.” He’s not being defensive, almost sounds forlorn at the realization that there’s nothing left to repair. “Can we … I don’t … Can I come over? I don’t want to be here. We … without, you know.” 

And Owen does. He knows how much time TK and Alex had spent here, how many times TK had planned a date night and Alex had asked if they could stay in instead. Owen doesn’t want to read too much into it, but he can’t help but wonder if there’d been a reason Alex had rarely wanted to go out with TK. And he’s sure TK is wondering the same thing, can see it in the way he’s glancing around the apartment. 

“Of course. You know I’m always happy to have you around.” TK relaxes at that, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “We’ll get your shirt rinsed out, bagels should be here any minute, and we can take them with us. How’s that sound?” 

TK nods and trails closely behind Owen as he runs cold water over the shirt, holds it out so that TK can see where the stain has completely disappeared. 

They’ve just pulled a duffel bag from the back of TK’s closet when he gasps. 

“My car is at the restaurant still.” His eyes start watering again at the prospect of having to go back there, having to face everything that has happened since last night. 

“Don’t worry about it; I’ll get you taken care of.” Owen reaches for a few shirts, passes one to TK to pull over his head, then folds two pair of jeans and a hoodie into the bag as well. “Let’s make sure you have a toothbrush, and we’ll get everything out the door.” 

There’s a knock just then, and TK stays all but plastered to Owen’s side while he greets the delivery driver and takes the bag of bagels, sitting them on the counter and leading the way back to the bathroom. He watches TK point, fills a small bag with the basic toiletries he’ll need for a few days. 

Together, they walk down to Owen’s SUV, and he can’t help but pick up on the note of finality as TK turns the key in the lock. 

However the next few days shake out, he’s got a feeling there will be movers in the near future. 

That’s not something to worry about today, though, so he pushes the thought to the back of his mind and starts driving. He’s pretty sure TK doesn’t notice that they’re not driving toward the restaurant or Owen's apartment, until he pulls up in front of Target and reaches for his wallet. 

“You go grab some new clothes – something without any old memories in them – and I’ll be right back. Your car will be in my lot when we get there, I promise.” 

He trades TK’s keys for his debit card, but doesn't think TK put any thought at all into what Owen’s planning to do. 

Truth be told, Owen hardly knows what the next step is, but TK isn’t left alone to sulk – or God only knows what – in his apartment, and he doesn’t have to go drive his own car across the city. 

So Owen leaves him at the store, and sets out on his own, back over the bridge to where TK’s car is still parked in the middle of the lot. This time of day, it’s the only car there, and Owen is a little surprised to find that it hasn’t been towed. He’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, though, so he parks his own vehicle, walks between the cars and slides TK’s seat back. 

It’s not until he’s almost halfway back to his building that Owen realizes what he’s done. They’ll have TK’s car now, sure, but his vehicle is stuck across town now. He spends a few blocks thinking, and realizes that there’s really only one option he can count on. It’s barely 10 a.m., and he has a feeling that TK won’t want everything to become public knowledge at work, so that rules out calling any of his friends. 

Hopefully there won’t be surge pricing this early on a Thursday morning. But if there is, TK is worth it. 

He turns the radio on, scrolls through TK’s presets to the classic rock station they both listen to, tired of stewing in his own thoughts. That only lasts as long as the car is running, though, and by the time he’s fastening his seatbelt in the backseat of an Uber, he’s back to ruminating about the last 15 hours. 

_He’s never liked Alex, not from the first time TK had introduced them._ _Couldn’t ever put his finger on why, but something about him had never settled right with Owen. He’d been happier not knowing, honestly, but at least he won’t have to feign excitement every time TK tells him another story about_ _Alex, pretend that he’s half as happy as TK had thought he was. But even not liking him, Owen had never thought he’d stoop this low. Breaking TK’s heart would have been one thing, leaving him for someone else. But this? Not even having the decency to tell him, just going behind his back_ _and stringing him along? Taking advantage of TK’s heart, just because he could? That’s unforgivable._

Before he knows it, the driver is dropping him off back at the restaurant, pulling up right next to the SUV like she knows exactly what’s going on here, even though Owen is positive he hasn’t said a word since he got in the car. He slips her a $5 bill as he gets out of the car, then waits until she’s out of his eyeline to start the SUV and drive back across town. 

It's harder to be furious with Alex when he has to focus on the traffic again, practically gridlocked even in the middle of the morning. What little extra focus he can expend certainly goes there, but most of his attention is on the cars around him on the road. 

When he’s almost back to Target, he calls TK to let him know, asks him to go ahead and get in line so Owen doesn’t have to try and find a parking spot in the middle of the city. 

TK meets him back out front, two plastic sacks hanging from his arm and a bottle of Mountain Dew in his hand. When he climbs back into the SUV, he seems a little more lively than he had, and it only takes a little bit of prodding for Owen to get him to show off the clothes he picked out. 

It’s not quite the enthusiasm Owen is used to seeing out of TK, but he spends the drive back to the apartment glancing over at red lights to admire a couple of new graphic tees, featuring band logos he vaguely recognizes, a pair of colorful joggers – the way TK says “Alex liked me in grey,” twists like a knife in Owen’s chest, but he’s glad to see that TK’s already reclaiming some independence – and a new pack of white V-necks. 

“Just in case … the stain comes back.” It won’t, and Owen knows that they both know it won’t, but if new shirts will make TK feel even the littlest bit better, then he’s not going to comment on the logic behind them. 

When they get to his apartment, Owen parks right next to TK’s car, immediately circles around to the back of the SUV and lifts the door to hoist TK’s bag onto his shoulder. Together, they walk around the block, shoulders bumping when they climb the steps to the front of the building. Owen holds the door open for TK, but he doesn't start up the stairs until he can follow his dad. He stays close behind him up all seven flights, until Owen is unlocking the door and letting them both into his living room. 

He doesn’t need to ask before TK is showing himself down the short hallway to Owen’s room, taking the duffel and the shopping bags with him. Owen grabs two glasses and the small pitcher of water from his fridge, spreads a towel out across the coffee table to protect it from condensation. 

TK comes back wearing his new joggers and a worn-in hoodie that Owen recognizes as one of his own. He drops onto the couch, all of his weight at once, bouncing slightly with the impact. Owen gestures to the empty glass and the pitcher, but TK just shrugs. 

“I want a drink.” They both know he doesn’t mean water. 

“I know.” 

“I can’t have one.” 

“I know.” Owen reaches over to squeeze his knee. “Need to call your sponsor?” 

At that, TK’s shoulders climb back up toward his ears and his spine curls in so rigidly that Owen can feel the tension in his own shoulder blades. 

“He said I shouldn’t propose.” 

_And TK doesn’t want to admit that the proposal didn’t go according to plan._

“Alright.” He knows better than to push the issue. If TK needs the support, he knows how to get ahold of his sponsor, but that’s not for Owen to decide. “I think I’ve got _Muppets Take Manhattan_ around here somewhere. That always cheered you up as a kid.” 

TK shrugs, and Owen takes it as permission to get up and start rifling through his DVD shelf. It’s easy enough to find, because the whole shelf is sorted alphabetically, and as soon as he’s sat back on the couch, TK is shuffling over to sit closer to him. 

Owen doesn’t say anything, half-worried that he’ll spook TK back across the sofa, but he stretches his arm out again, creates a space for TK to tuck himself against his side. He curls in as soon as the silent invitation is extended, his head resting against the joint in Owen’s shoulder. 

The opening credits begin, and Owen remembers dozens of other times that he and TK have watched this movie together, how when he was little, he’d ask if every building in the opening panorama was their house. As he got older, the childlike wonder had worn off, but Owen would still come home from work, find him tucked underneath a blanket while the screen flickered in an otherwise dark room. He’d sit down beside his son and they’d watch together; sometimes, when it was over TK would talk about whatever was bothering him, but not always. Owen never pressed him for information, knew TK would come to him when it really counted. 

And he always had. Owen recounts the last time they watched this together, how he’d just picked TK up from his first AlAnon meeting and he’d spent the entire drive home humming “Together Again.” That night, they’d hardly made it in the front door before TK was crouched down in front of the DVD shelf, running his fingers across the boxes and looking for the title he wanted. 

Today, the midday sun is streaming through the window, but even so, the curtains have hardly closed on the opening credits before TK has slid down to pillow his head in Owen’s lap and drawn his knees up to his chest. He’s made himself so small, looks much younger than his 26 years, and Owen’s heart breaks for the hundredth time today. 

His hand drops down to tangle in TK’s hair, rubbing small circles into his scalp like he did all those years ago. TK whimpers softly, but leans into the touch, so Owen doesn't move his fingers. It only takes a few minutes for his breathing to go soft and even, his eyes to flutter closed. Shortly after, he starts snoring lightly, just enough noise for Owen to almost miss the way his own stomach gurgles. 

Right, they never did eat the bagels. He’d carried the bag upstairs, dropped it on the coffee table with the water glasses, can see the rumpled paper just a few feet away. He gives it a couple of more minutes, hopes that TK will be sleeping soundly enough not to notice when Owen shifts forward far enough to reach the sack. 

He stirs, but just a little bit, but Owen only needs to press a couple of more circles into his scalp before he settles back to sleep. Once the snoring resumes, Owen opens the bag slowly, tries not to make too much noise as he pushes the top off of a container of cream cheese and dresses his asiago bagel. He nibbles tiny bites as the movie plays in the background, careful to avoid dropping crumbs into TK’s hair. 

When the last of the bagel is gone, his stomach full enough to last until the end of the movie, Owen reaches down the length of the couch and retrieves the soft throw blanket folded neatly over the back. It takes some maneuvering, but he’s able to drape it over them both, without covering TK’s face, before he leans his own head back and closes his eyes. 

Just for a second, he swears. He’s just going to rest his eyes for a second, then he’ll sit back up and watch Kermit and the gang exploring his city, make sure that he’s around if TK wakes up and needs him. 

But when he opens his eyes, just a moment later, Kermit and Miss Piggy are getting married onstage. 

_Shit. He forgot about this part._

He looks down to his lap, checking to see if TK is still asleep. He is, thankfully, but even if he hadn’t been, by now he’s seen the movie enough times to know how it ends. Probably enough times to recite the scene, if he needed or cared to. The last notes fade out, giving way to the rapid scroll of the closing credits, and Owen jostles TK’s shoulder just enough to get him to stir. 

Under any other circumstances, he’d let him sleep, but he knows that all he’s eaten today is a bagel, and that’s one bagel more than TK has had. He needs to eat something, even if he sleeps some more after. So Owen shakes him gently until he opens his eyes. 

“Hey, son. Movie’s over; have a good nap?” 

TK nods and stretches his legs, but leaves his head in his dad’s lap while he yawns. 

“Mhmm. ‘S a good movie to sleep to. Nice an’ comforting.” 

“Yeah, I noticed. Think we both needed the rest today, though. But you know what I could go for now? A bite to eat. How about you?” 

TK sits up, considering the suggestion. 

“I … haven’t eaten today.” Owen waits patiently for him to come to his own decision. “I need food. Not really hungry, but maybe once I start eating.” 

“Good thought,” Owen know he’s right, that TK usually doesn’t realize how hungry he is until he gets through the first few bites. “It’s … 3 now. Late lunch? We can order Thai, go pick it up together?” 

He waits for TK to nod before he pulls the closest restaurant’s menu up on his phone and thumbs through it. Thai is far from his favorite, but he remembers TK commenting on how he’d never get to eat it with Alex, so he figures it might be a nice change from his usual today. 

They phone in an order, and Owen waits for TK to re-lace his sneakers before picking up his keys and opening the front door. 

“Walk? It’s only a few blocks.” TK shrugs, but doesn’t object, so when they get downstairs, they turn away from the parking lot and start weaving their way down the sidewalk. There aren’t too many people out, by New York standards, but just enough pedestrians to make the crowd challenging to navigate. 

But just when they’ve made it through another cluster of people standing in the middle of the walkway, a little terrier pulls against its retractable leash, yipping and trying to get closer to TK. 

“Hi, buddy!” TK’s voice pitches up an octave as he bends down to scratch the dog’s ears. “Oh, you’re a sweetheart, aren’t you?” 

It's the first genuine smile Owen has seen from him since he left the fire station yesterday, and for a moment, he’s got the urge to go to the nearest shelter and adopt every dog they’ve got, just to keep that look on TK’s face. 

The dog jumps up against his shins, paws scrabbling for purchase against his knees as it licks at TK’s hands. 

Owen stands there for a minute, watches TK and his new best friend, before the dog’s owner tugs him along down the sidewalk. TK coos a goodbye, then heaves himself back upright. 

“I take it that brightened your day a little bit?” 

“Did you see his eyes, Dad? He was _so happy_ to see me, and he doesn’t even know me!” TK spends the rest of the short walk raving about the dog, everything from the slobbery kisses to the soft and wiry fur. 

He’s not healed yet, not by a long shot, but it hasn’t even been an entire day, and at least he’s smiling again. 

It’s progress, Owen decides, as he takes the sacks of food and passes one to TK for the walk back home. 

They eat together, hardly exchanging any words. What is there to say, when Owen’s been there for every minute of the worst day TK has had in years? TK is content with the silence, so Owen makes his peace with it as well. Besides, as soon as he starts eating, TK is practically inhaling his curry, so he doesn't have much breath to spare for talking. 

When the food is eaten, the containers thrown away, TK wanders silently over to the little shelf where Owen keeps a few board games stacked. Usually, they only get them down when the team comes over for dinner, but TK is staring so intensely that Owen has a feeling they’re about to break the unwritten tradition. 

Today seems to be a day for that, so when TK comes back holding a chess set, he doesn't do anything but clear the mostly-empty water pitcher and glasses over to the kitchen counter. 

TK arranges the pieces, and they wind up sitting on the floor across from each other. TK opens the game, sliding a pawn forward two squares, and they’re off. 

It takes a few turns for Owen to realize why TK picked chess, but he’s moving his pieces thoughtfully, each move carefully calculated as he tries to predict what Owen’s going to do next. 

He has to think so _much_ to play chess, that there’s hardly any room left for him to dwell on anything else. Owen meets him on that plane, chooses his moves to keep TK on his toes, indulging his need for a distraction. 

The first game takes just over an hour, and ends in a stalemate. But in all that time, Owen’s pretty sure TK hasn’t thought about Alex even once, and that’s the biggest victory he could have hoped for. 

He’s getting ready to ask TK if he wants to play again, but looks down to find that he’s already halfway through resetting the board. 

“Is this … OK?” TK looks up at him, hesitation across his face, when everything is lined back up. 

“I was about to offer you another chance to try and beat me.” Owen smiles, watching TK’s fingers hover over his pieces, trying to choose his first move. 

“Oh, so it’s like that?” They both laugh and the game is afoot. 

This time, things are a little more friendly. Or, a little less friendly, considering the amount of playful trash talk. But the heavy silence between them is gone, replaced with TK playfully swearing when Owen captures his rook, and Owen reminding him that religious figures have traditionally been off-limits in war, as he knocks his father’s bishop off the board. 

In the end, TK catches Owen off guard and corners him into admitting defeat, takes one of his knights with a pawn, of all things, when Owen is busy thinking about how much he likes spending time with his son, even under less-than-ideal circumstances. 

When the second game ends, TK goes to set the board up a third time, but yawns broadly instead. Owen reaches forward to stop his hands, and waits for him to look up. 

“We’ll play again tomorrow, OK? For now, what if we break out those bagels from this morning, maybe see what’s on Food Network?” It’s just the right kind of mindless, he thinks. Something competitive enough to keep their attention, but still easy enough watching that there isn’t much plot to keep track of. 

TK nods, and lifts himself up to slide onto the couch while Owen puts the game away and gets the bagels from the kitchen. He passes TK an everything bagel, and a napkin to catch the topping that will inevitably fall off as he tears the bites away. Owen’s never understood how he can stand to do it, but he watches TK rip a piece of bagel off and dunk it into the cup of cream cheese he’s holding, then pop the entire thing in his mouth. 

He rolls his eyes affectionately as he reaches for the TV remote, clicking through the channels until _Chopped_ appears on the screen. They watch together through two episodes, idly commenting on that it must be impossible to make ravioli in 20 minutes, without being allowed to use any pots or pans, then marveling when the contestants succeed anyway (as if they don’t rise to almost every challenge Ted Allen throws at them). 

Just like always, TK and Owen are careful to pick different competitors to cheer for, adding another layer of entertainment to the viewing as they tease each other. It’s familiar and easy, and for a couple of hours, Owen almost forgets everything that’s brought them to here and now. 

But he looks over on the first commercial break of the next episode, sees that TK’s eyelids are drooping. Every time he closes them, they fly back open in a matter of seconds as he fights against the sleep he so clearly needs. He’s still paying attention though, Owen thinks, so he doesn’t try to turn the TV off or anything. Instead, he just brings his commentary down to a soft enough volume that it won’t disturb TK if he does drift off. 

He’s still awake when they crown the last chef standing, albeit only barely. At the top of the show, he’d declared his support for the eventual champion, but doesn’t seem to notice that he’s won, so Owen pokes the power button until the screen goes black and TK sits up. 

“We can keep watchin’,” he murmurs blearily, rubbing his eyes. 

“TK, it’s almost 11. Time for us both to turn in for the night.” TK sits up a little straighter at that, stares at Owen in surprise. Suddenly, he realizes that it’s the first time he’s so much as suggested leaving TK alone since he opened the door at 3:30 a.m. “You going to be OK out here? Or want to camp out in the bedroom?” 

It’s a reasonable enough middle ground, he thinks, but TK still slumps back into the corner of the sofa. 

“I’m not kicking you out of your room.” 

“You wouldn’t be. TK, do you have any idea how many nights you’ve slept in my bed? It took two months to get you back into your own room when your mom moved out. What’s one more night?” 

“I’m 26.” The resignation is back in his tone, and TK pulls his knees back up to his chest. 

“And I’m still your dad.” He steps closer, thinks about sitting down, but decides that if he does that, he probably won’t stand back up until tomorrow morning. “Up to you, but it won’t bother me.” 

Owen watches him for a second, can practically feel the gears grinding against each other in his head while TK weighs his options. 

“I don’t think I should be alone,” he finally concedes. At that, Owen steps back and smiles softly. 

“You’re not. Ever.” He holds out a hand, pulls TK to his feet and in for a tight hug. “Now go to bed. I’ll be there in just a minute.” 

TK hugs him again, then makes his way down the hall toward Owen’s room. Owen watches him go, listens for the noise of the sink running while he puts the leftover bagels away for them to have in the morning. 

He locks the front door, and almost as an afterthought, sees his work bag sitting beside his sneakers. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Owen finds himself crouching down and pulling back the zipper on one of the little side pockets. They’re too small to hold most things, except maybe car keys, so he hardly ever uses them. Which is why it had felt like the perfect place to slip the little piece of cardstock the DHS agent had passed him the day before. 

He’s turning it over in his fingers, passing it back and forth between his hands. But it’s not until he runs his thumb across the phone number in the corner that he realizes the weight of what he’s considering. 

It would change _everything,_ rewrite the very fundamentals of their lives. 

But maybe that’s what he and TK need right now, a new start, somewhere without any expectations of their personal lives. 

The least he can do is call back, hear them out and really think about the offer. Besides, the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks he knows what he has to do. For himself, for TK, and for everyone else involved. 

_Texas is_ _in for one hell of a surprise._

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xbaoi-lifOM
> 
> Until next time, loves!  
> xoxo


End file.
